Tag Archives: prairie

A winter’s dream

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He lived the worsted winter months, content
and warm, beside his glowing coals.  His walls
protected him from prairie winds that would,
if wild, leave waning hearts in withered hides
of all who stood exposed.  But here, beneath
the wind, away from stinging snows, in close
to his own fire, he sang a song of thanks.
He pressed his hands against the earth to feel
its quiet force, to touch the womb of his
own strength, to suck the scent of this, his home.

A dawn arrived so crisp and clear the light
beyond his walls crept in and kissed his eyes
awake.  The sun caressed his face and drew
him out, it seemed, with whispers soft and new.
The light was unlike any he had seen:
so brilliant, pure and sure it hurt his eyes;
so beautiful and strong he could not look
away.  He stretched his arms toward the sun
as if he meant to hold it close, embrace
the heat and press the light against his breast.

“I waited long for you.  I saw you in
my dreams.  I knew I’d love you when you came.”
He closed his eyes.  “And now that you are here,
I know you will not stay with me.  Your walk
along my path is short; your journey’s pace
is swift.  I know that you have danced across
the mountain tops, that you have run untamed
with horses on the distant plains, that you
have heard the secret songs of streams unknown.
I know you long for them again, so go.”

He bowed his head and smiled. “In dreams, I’ve held
you near a hundred times and not been burned.
Before you came, I touched your flame, embraced
your fire and felt the life that flows from you.”
He raised his face toward the sky again.
“I know it cannot be.  Your touch would mean
the end of me.”  He shook his head.  “I have
no want for life to live a dream or dreams
to come to life: to see your light today
is sweeter even than the dream.  Enough.”

He lived the worsted winter months, content
and warm, beside his glowing coals.  His walls
protected him from prairie winds that would,
if wild, leave waning hearts in withered hides
of all who stood exposed.  But here, beneath
the wind, away from stinging snows, in close
to his own fire, his heart was full of thanks.
His fingers wrapped around his flute and lips
blew happy songs of love: for light, for heat,
for hints of spring that dance within a dream.

The view from the grave

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The prairie broke in a range of hills with sides

of layered rock and crests as flat as the plains

below.  We left the highway and headed north.

The paved road turned to gravel and, as it wound

its upward course, the gravel turned to dirt,

the dirt road narrowed, the piney forest closed

along the sides and the fading road became

a two-track.  When the two-track ended at

a washout, we stopped the truck, climbed out and walked.

The hillside where the road had ended fell

away and, taking it, we cut across

a valley of cactus flowers growing wild,

ascended the farther slope and found a stand

–a thicker, richer stand–of trees.  The air

was cool and moist among the fragrant boughs,

and pausing to rest and cleanse our throats of dust

we heard the flawless empty spaces sigh

a song of solitude and sweeter days

of untamed dreams and boundless chance.  We thought

aloud how such an open place was as near

to paradise as we had ever seen.  An hour

we walked the quiet hills for nothing more

than feeling them alive beneath our feet.

And then we saw it.

……………………… A tombstone, a modest stone,

with letters nearly lost to the wear of rain

and wind and snow.  My brother read the name.

“It’s Mrs. Otis Tye,” he said.  “She died

in January, 1882.”

….

“Out here?” I asked.

….

………………………. “I heard about them once,”

said he.  “The Tyes were settlers.  One winter night,

when Otis was away from home, the team

of horses got away and lost in snow.

Frontier gals being a hearty bunch, Ms. Tye

went out that night to fetch them back alone.”

……

“You gotta love a woman like that,” I said.

……

My brother nodded.  “Crying shame they gave

her his name on the stone.  She earned her own.”

…..

“The storm?”

…..

………………. “He found her on this very spot.

The house is standing yet, in part at least,

about a mile from here.”  He waved his arm

toward the east.  “It’s made of rocks from these

same hills.”

……..

……………. We stood alone among the rocks

and swallowed tepid water from our canteens–

a silent toast of sorts–and thought about

the turning of the circle.  Frontier graves

were simple things:  Her wooden box had long

returned to the earth from which it came, and she

was sure to follow close behind.  We knew

the life the hills had given her, the life

that fueled the fire in her eyes, was now the life

that filled these scented grasses, held these trees

against the prairie winds and helped to close

the sacred hoop.  We knew that it was right.

…….

I saw him squint toward the muffled calls

of far-off turkeys.  “Want to go?” I asked.

……

He shook his head and turned his face to feel

the arid winds that blew across the plains

and rose against the rocks.  “Let’s stay a while,”

he said, then smiled.  “The air’s so clean, so clear,

it is amazing what I see from here.”